


Mirrored

by inber



Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Come Shot, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, One Shot, Self-Insert, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: You’re an inn-keeper’s daughter. Life is boring. Geralt of Rivia turns up to stay the night, and at for one delightful evening, you have something nice to watch.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/You
Series: Inber's Geralt x Reader Fanfiction [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840087
Comments: 5
Kudos: 112





	Mirrored

Being the daughter of an innkeeper in a small village is quaint and slow at best, and devastatingly boring at worst. Now that you are just past your twenty-second summer, a grown and curious woman, your family’s business is suffocating you. You know every single person’s business, whether you want to or not; drunk people are entirely too forthcoming, and for the most part, you are very patient.

The only brightness in your work comes from travellers; usually merchants, often with something exotic or unique to trade, but when your father is out the back cooking, you slyly trade ale for stories instead. They were your preferred currency; rapt, you spend hours listening to the smallest detail about far away places that you’d never set foot, and you’d pillow your chin in your hands and dream. After closing, you’d take out a map once bought from a scribe passing through town, and carefully make notations on it; where elves lived, where monsters were said to lurk, and where royalty resided.

It was the main reason you were beyond excited when a Witcher stepped over your threshold, ‘til he shook back his cloak hood and gave you _another_ reason: the man was so fiercely handsome that you subtly pinched the inside of your elbow to make sure that you weren’t dreaming him up.

His gilded eyes catch yours, and although you feel your stomach do something acrobatic, you smile warmly in greeting at him. This simple gesture seems to make him wary, doubly so when you begin to speak. “Welcome to the Apple and Oak! Would you care to have a seat by the fire? My name is Y/N–”

“–Never you mind what her name is, Witcher,” Your father cuts you off, seeming to apparate from the kitchen, and your mouth hangs a little slack as he continues to elbow you out of the way, almost behind him, “ **I** will bring your ale.”

“And a bowl of ox-tail stew, and bread.” The Witcher asks, taking a seat in one of the corners, although there were better tables available; it wasn’t as if you were overrun with customers. He doesn’t seem to mind your father’s rudeness. “I should like a room for the evening, too.” His baritone makes the hairs on your arms rise up, and you bite your lower lip and stare at your feet so you stop gawking at him.

Your father huffs and makes a great show of flicking through the book that serves as your guest registry, although you know as well as he does that nobody has booked any of your rooms – comfortable and homely as they are. It simply wasn’t a peak travel time. You tug at your father’s sleeve and give him a _look_ , equal parts question and scolding; you could use the money. He brushes his hands on his flour-dusted apron and grunts.

“As you wish, Witcher. But just because you are _the_ ‘Geralt of Rivia’, that don’t mean you’re welcome to everything in this tavern. I’ve heard _stories_ ‘bout you. Maybe you got nice songs written 'bout you and I don’t, but that don’t mean what’s mine is yours. Am I clear?” You realise that he’s talking about _you_ halfway through his overprotective speech, and you feel your cheeks flame crimson. Gods, your father still thinks of you as a pig-tailed girl, playing scab-kneed in the square with your friends. He probably still thinks you’re a virgin, too. You want a magic portal to open at your feet and consume you.

“Transparent.” The Witcher – Geralt, that is his name, you have learned – rumbles, and now that you’ve been all but banned from the best entertainment you’ve had access to in months, there’s nothing left for you to do but stomp off to the kitchen to prepare the food whilst your father tends the bar instead.

The evening seems to drag on forever, with Geralt consuming his fill of stew and ale, generous with his coin, as you steal glimpses of him through the doorway and between the jugs of ale lined up on the shelf as often as you can. Most of the time he’s staring into the fire, statuesque, and you are able to admire the way the light reflects off the sharp angles of his face. Sometimes he catches you staring, and you have to pretend to get on with whatever busy-work you are attempting to do – although you swear once or twice he’s almost got a smirk on his otherwise impassive lips.

The night brings a rush of regulars, more than you might usually see, because it’s the herbalist’s birthday and she’s invited half of the town to drink to her health. Your father falls into easy conversation with the crowd of them, and you watch sneakily, biding your time; it won’t be long before he’s sat with them, drinking too, and you’ll be given the chance to steal away from the kitchen.

He’s on his second flagon of ale by the time you deem it safe to leave your post, and you’ve been so focused on the party-goers that Geralt’s empty seat comes as a shock to you. Was he offended by the noise, and left? There was nowhere else for visitors to sleep in your town, so you figure – or rather, you hope – that he’s made his way upstairs to a room.

Taking an alternative route to get to the guest rooms, avoiding the noisy revelry, you steal upstairs as you untie your apron, stopping to shove it into a linen closet where you also pick up a couple of towels so that you might have an excuse to call upon the Witcher’s room. Approaching one of the doors, you realise that it’s open a couple of inches – fixing the latch has been on the 'to do’ list for some time now – and you also hear the sound of water splashing.

At first you’re annoyed that he had to draw his own bath – your father could at least have relaxed his hold upon your leash to let you do that kindness – but that thought is quickly forgotten as you notice that the floor-length mirror positioned in the corner of the room is at _exactly_ the right angle for you to see… well, everything.

If you’d thought he was desirable before, he was _indescribable_ now; the tub you had is too small to fit him very comfortably, but he’s making do, daubing at his knit-muscled chest with a wet rag. His abdomen is pleasantly scattered with hair, leading in a direct line down to his Adonis’ belt, at which point the water almost obscures your view, but not enough for you to catch that he’s impressively endowed. You clutch the towels and wish you were brave enough to slip into the room, shove a chair behind the fiddly door, and make him dirty enough to need a second bath.

He makes a low hum, the sound of a man relaxed and pleased, and you feel it vibrate across your skin in pin-prick waves of desire. Every muscle in your body is taut, and although your pulse has leapt into the back of your throat, you make an effort to keep your breathing low. Is it wrong to watch him this way? _Yes_ , you begrudgingly realise; were the tables turned, and you found out about him watching you, you’d… well, you’d invite him in. But were it any other man? You’d hunt him down and make sure he never took advantage again.

It’s one thing to know this intellectually. It’s another when, warring with yourself, you realise he’s begun to stroke his thick cock lazily, reclining in the water with his legs spread wide, making that low groan again that has you transfixed, frozen in place, apparently helpless to do anything but _stare_. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

Geralt tilts his head back, his right hand working his shaft a little faster now that he’s hard – you’d thought he was impressive before, but now you’re _awe-struck_ – and he begins to breathe deeper, his chest rising and falling as he pleasures himself. Occasionally he squeezes a little harder, running his thumb around the red head of his cock, and he rumbles blissfully every time, his legs twitching. Your eyes feel dry, but you don’t want to blink. You don’t want to miss a gods-damned second of this.

“ _Fuuuck_ ,” He purrs lowly, quickening the pace of his hand, and you watch with fascination as his abdominals become more pronounced with the tensing of his torso, the sound of splashing water louder as his stroking increases. His face is so beautiful; his dragon’s-treasure eyes are half-lidded, and his lips are slightly parted to allow for the heady whorl of his panting, and _Gods_ you’d give anything you owned to kiss them.

He arches his hips up to meet the snug sheath of his own hand, grunting, his left hand gripping the side of the tub, and you are privy to the most spectacular sight as he comes undone, hunched slightly forward in the bath, gasping his pleasure as ropes of his scorching seed burst from his cock, painting his chest in long, thick stripes, spattering across his defined stomach, his massive form shaking and twitching as he endures this self-made bliss. His orgasm is long, punctuated by ragged-breath cursing, and seemingly endless 'til he jerks forward once, twice, and then relaxes back against the edge of the bath, utterly spent. He’s covered in his glistening come, his features totally serene, his breathing slowing. His cock is still hard, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Meanwhile, you’ve knotted the towel in your hand into an origami swan.

“Did you enjoy that as much as I did, Y/N?” He asks conversationally, not opening his eyes, and you freeze up like a late blossom in winter, sure you’re going to have a cardiac event. This _whole time_ he **knew** you were watching – the scene you witnessed was not just for him. It was a performance for you, too. The idea of being caught battles in your mind with the very sexy idea that this enigmatic man _wanted_ you to watch him. It made him hot. It’s made you frantic.

“I’ve never been so wet in my _entire life._ ” You blurt out, and then cover your mouth; he laughs, and finally opens his eyes, meeting your gaze in the mirror.

“Really, now?” His salt-grit voice is low, “I’d say we ought to do something about that, but your father was quite clear–”

“I have no care to speak of my father.” You interrupt, and quickly you slip into the room, nudging it properly shut with the curve of your rear, dropping the tortured towels onto the floor. “My desires are _entirely_ singular, right now.”

“Hmmm.” He responds, before beckoning you closer with a finger, “Very well. Show me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow my Tumblr, @inber for drabble/general ramblings.


End file.
